This One's a Happy Story
by greenlemons
Summary: Death. Heartache. Resolve.


**AN: I wrote this one-shot last night whilst in the process of procrastinating writing the final chapter of _Over the Hills and Far Away_. I hope you enjoy!**

**I, also, gave beta-ing a shot and this story is here with the help of A_Redhead_Thing! So applause and thanks for her! *hears cheering crowd*  
**

This One's a Happy Story

The funeral was held during the day, despite some rather vocal complaints about the time. The husband put his foot down, however, and made it clear he was paying tribute to his wife in the best way he knew how; and not for the convenience of others. She would have wanted it this way. She loved the sun – its light, warmth, protection. He hadn't expected anyone to care about when he decided to honour his wife's final moments. It had mostly been the people in the town that they lived in who saw her regularly, who talked with her, who showed interest in her. Where were they?

The hardest thing he ever had to do was watch them lower her casket into the hole, six feet under. The grass had been freshly dug, the hole was masterfully even and the lever was skilfully directed. A lump was lodged in his throat, and he was unable to hold it down, as tears spilled out of his eyes, running down his cheeks – his heart was breaking. The death hadn't impacted him until this very moment. The day of was a blur. The wake was unimportant. And the ceremony in the church was forgettable. Now, at the grave, her casket shut, her face never to be seen again, he wept.

The gentle, muffled cries were respectful. Not everyone cared to tolerate his wife's behaviour a few years ago, but they had come to accept it, and since she had settled down, they had welcomed her back with open arms and a few 'thank goodness you found some sense's'.

The husband wasn't so sure about that declaration. His wife was often absent-minded. He hated catching her staring out of their bedroom window, after she believed him to be asleep, looking out into the night, searching for something more. He knew what she was thinking; he just refused to accept it. Or when they would make love, and he'd catch a distant look in her eye and he'd agonize over who she was thinking about, but thought better of ever talking with her about it. In exchange for her physical presence, there was a price of her often detached emotional state. Often, he'd see her open her mouth, gearing up for an important conversation before watching her shake her head and wander off, distracted by her troubling thoughts for the following days, her mood dampened, her colours quieted.

He tried to ignore the blatant truths glaring him in the face throughout their nine year marriage, but here, watching her be buried along with her hopes, desires and feelings, clawed at his resolve that they were meant to be – that she was better off with him.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

And she never had the time to be sure of any of it – her life, her love, her soul...

How could he be that self-involved? When she had come knocking on his door ten years ago, in a state of ultimate devastation, he should have been a friend, he should have warned her against her resolve. She was stubborn and perhaps at first his attempts might have been futile, but over time, he could have broken her down to confess to her discretions. Instead, he had blindly accepted her words of hate toward the creature she suffered over for two years. He didn't question it – he didn't want to hear anything but her refusal of ever returning to _him_, to that world. The husband gladly stepped away with her.

Their companionship was never awkward or forced, it was a natural joining of two friends who loved one another. And he did. He loved her with every fibre of his being, no matter how distorted by an unnatural affliction it was. They lived happily with their dog, in her home, not far from his business, a five minute drive each day.

They never had children.

When they first married, she had told him 'someday'. At thirty-eight, at the time of her death, she was still saying the same thing. Now, he realised, her desire for children had faded and he wondered just how long ago she had let that dream go. When she had involved herself in that world? The world he had shunned his whole life?

He realized now, maybe she was too intertwined with it to ever let it go. She was invested. She was interested. There was no amount of distancing either he or she could do about it. Their attempt at separating themselves from the supernatural world was fruitless. There was no point, because here they were nine years later: dead and miserable.

He cried for all that they had lost and realized they hadn't gained much.

The sympathies were disarming. His revelation was crushing him like a dead body, something he couldn't ignore, no matter how underground they seemed.

He hadn't heard the end of this.

He fully expected to be confronted this night. The safety of the sun, high in the sky, with squeaking insects and blazing heat, a few days after her thirty-eighth birthday. He had no response for the questions he would be asked. And if he were to be killed – he'd welcome it.

Despite her misgivings, she was all he ever loved and ever would.

Her brother stood by, his hands locked in front of him, expressionless and no doubt feeling guilty. He had not been the best sibling. He had not given her the attention, she never asked for, but deserved. He had never respected her, never protected her, never been grateful of her – he was a selfish, lowly bastard who was surely tormented for his wrong doings now.

The husband retreated to their home. It wasn't his, he realized stepping foot inside. It never felt like it, and it sure as hell didn't even feel like the place it had come to be without her presence. He sat on the couch, defeated; pulling the old afghan off the back and cried tears against it for everything they had lost over ten years.

Thankfully, his tears lulled him into a heavy sleep that couldn't even wake the dead.

There was a knock, loud, forceful on the door. He opened his eyes and saw that night had drifted over the old farm house during his misery. He heaved himself up, ten years older than he was the last time he had addressed the creature of the night.

The husband opened the door and was immediately reminded of his dominating charisma. He was taller and broader than he remembered. His face was a mask, devoid of emotion.

"Sam Merlotte," the pale, blond, king uttered in his calm voice – the voice that had haunted his wife for ten years.

The husband could barely lift his eyes to meet the vampire's. "Eric," he nodded sloppily, his head heavy with snot and tears.

"I believe I was never disinvited," the vampire spoke smoothly, striding in before he could be allowed. Sam caught sight of the guards protectively standing by, just in case. He closed the door on their dead faces.

The two distant rivals stood wordlessly in front of the stairs. The emotion was heady as they both were overcome with her smell, left behind to remind them of her spirit. Sam dug his hands in his pockets, not caring that the King of Louisiana was baring witness to his pure moment of weakness.

****

The king was aware of how little he remembered of his planned speech. Only Sookie Stackhouse could leave him so undone.

The shifter had aged. The vampire had not.

What was there to say except they both regretted her death – but part of this situation they were in was the cause of them both realizing that this was inevitable, on so many different accounts. She never wanted to be immortal. She never wanted to be anything but human, and this is what humans did best.

They were facing a doomed conversation.

How could it be that the king had been so furious only days ago at the learning of her death, at the knowledge that the shifter had isolated him from her service and yet here he was, drowning in her lingering scent, his mind melting away from the thousand years it had spent building up an impenetrable barrier? Sookie Stackhouse – you're killing me.

What would be the point of him being here without saying a few words?

He wanted to bury himself in her closet, sniffing every last bit of her perfume, until he had selfishly absorbed it all and left nothing for the dog.

This is what the mundane did, the king reminded himself, lived and died. He had forgotten. He never expected her to be one of them, the worthless, expendable humans who couldn't leave a mark in the soil let alone in anyone's memory.

But Sookie, his once bonded, his only love, had left a mark on his dead, un-beating heart. He had spent years denying this fact, but what was the use of fronts now? He would never see her again. There was no hope for that. He would exist and she would drift.

He wasn't sure how he should respond to that. Should he be overwrought with grief? Dragged into a bout of uncontrollable fury? Carelessly destructive of the years he had accumulated, searching for any bit of relief he could muster?

Those were things he had spent a thousand years making damn sure he never subjected himself to. And here he was, on the verge of all three. The shifter was not easing his mind, he was adding fuel to his inner fire.

Why not kill him? He had thought about it several times over, snapping his stupid, pining, lazy shifter neck and relishing in his distasteful blood. The thought made his fangs come down. Yes, it would be very...ah, relaxing.

The shifter was anxiously shifting from foot to foot, unable to handle the deafening silence. "What do you want from me, Eric?"

No your majesty, your highness, your Excellency...informal, rude, worthy of a death warrant. Eric couldn't raise his voice to speak, once again. He blinked shocked by his own quiet. He inhaled, remembering Sookie, feeling more comfortable when he did so.

"She was mine," he found his hoarse voice finally speaking.

The shifter stilled, watching the ancient vampire deal with a thousand years of suppressed emotion right before his eyes. And in that moment everything about Sookie, everything about the past ten years made sense.

"She was," Sam found himself agreeing.

Eric, humanly, cleared his throat. He decided to rise above petty emotion in front of a poor excuse for a supe, and he turned sharply away from the shifter, from the house, from the smell and into the knowledgeable night. Death had come. Death had taken.

His child was waiting for him. She was all he had left, he realized.

What was more horrifying was that he had two beings to care for to begin with.

"No souvenirs?" Pam joked weakly, just as shaken by the house as he was.

Eric hardly moved his head. "I have plenty at home."

"You do," she said. "But her scent has faded."

Eric tapped his nose, smiling wistfully, weakly. "Never."

**Silence..........**

**Review for me, please. Thanks.  
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